My Sherlock
by TapTapAlways
Summary: This is the last part in the Quadrology of "Portrait of a Genius", "Christmas with a Genius" and "Loving a Genius" set after the two boys have finally gotten married and are living happily ever after on Baker Street with their pet Gladstone. A Christmas Special Series in four parts.
1. My Sherlock

John woke first. During all their years of having this tradition, that was a first. He looked down onto the sleeping genius next to him and gently traced his beautiful cheekbones with a fingertip. No matter how many mornings he got to wake up with him, usually being the last to wake, though, his husband's beauty always stunned him.

He continued to tenderly trace a hand over Sherlock's face as he thought about their time together. Their years as roommates and partners in crime-fighting. The two black holes of years after the fall, when he felt alone like never before, the start of their more intimate relationship, their two years of engagement and now, six months of marriage. And hopefully, sixty years or so more to come. Okay, maybe not sixty. Forty, maybe. John snorted for himself. He wasn't twenty-five anymore, after all.

There was something magical about this day, the doctor pondered further, in their so very, very special morning cuddle tradition, even though it wasn't half as rare an experience these days. Sherlock had gotten much, much better especially during the past two years, and most cuddles these days were pretty unrestricted, if not entirely, but he could still not imagine giving the tradition up. It was still special. Christmas magic, maybe, but he had looked forward to this morning for weeks. He probably always would.

Deciding that as Sherlock had made him breakfast in bed this day for the past two years, it ought to be his turn this time, John rose - for once not restrained by a detective who was either sleeping on him or feeling clingy - and padded into the kitchen.

He wondered when Sherlock had actually gone to bed last night. Not only was he still sleeping now, at - he peeked at the clock in the corner - nine am, John had heard his violin at three in the morning, and what seemed like half the refrigerator was taken up by newly baked goods, not that Sherlock would admit to anyone but him that he was actually the baker.

Whenever anyone else saw baked goods in their kitchen, Sherlock blamed Mrs Hudson, and if that didn't work, John. Nobody doubted him, and even the former soldier admitted to himself that that was was more believable anyway, as he pulled out a skillet to scramble some eggs, and turned on the owen to put in the chocolate cake which had a note on it that said it needed 20 minutes in the owen, and was best eaten warm. He couldn't help but smile at his husband's frankly amusing level of planning.

It was about thirty minutes later when John returned to bed (having first dubblechecked that the owen and stove were both indeed off), and a very sleepy Sherlock Holmes, with a well-laden tray and a big smile. "Morning" muttered the detective, rubbing his eyes and looking pretty much adorable.

"Hi there" John whispered, crawling back into bed, careful with the tray, and pulled three gifts - one of them the now obligatory book on bees - up into the bed as well, seeing how Sherlock had already done so, even though he looked like he wasn't even conscious. Obviously, he was. Or at least enough so to know today's date, which would not have been so ironic if he hadn't been so blatantly unaware of that fact at least three hundred days a year.

John started this year, unpacking yet another jumper (he tended to wear them out) and while they took turns also opened a sonata - written specially for himself - two sets of cufflinks, a key to the Holmes estate ("as you are family now, according to mother. You were family before too, wasn't she paying attention?") and a new jacket.

He had gotten Sherlock his fourth book on bees, a new scarf and... a cat, to be picked up after their cuddle from where it had spent the night with Mrs Hudson. Gladstone was a Belgian Blue of two years of age whom Sherlock had fallen madly in love with when they came across him during a case, and much as John found his husband's emotional inaptness amusing, he also found the detective's unability to express his feelings deeply heartbreaking on this occasion. So he did it for him. Needless to say, Sherlock pretended to sulk but was really quite over the moon about it, and that was enough for John.

There was not a trace of tension this time in Sherlock's body as John started nuzzling his neck, letting his hands gently cup the muscles in his lovers shoulders, just enjoying the feeling of having him there with him, safe and sound.

John smiled at Sherlock gently nuzzling his hair with his long musician's fingers, giving a soft humm of approval. The first year or two of these cuddle-sessions, Sherlock had been far too preoccupied with trying to keep himself calm at the excess of contact to do much touching of his own, but just as John always knew he would, Sherlock had steadily come a long way.

Sherlock knew it too, though he granted that he had a bit to go still, mostly with other people, (he wasn't as sure he wanted to, when it came to them) but there were few things John was not allowed to do these days, even outside of their yearly extra-special cuddles, even though the genius was genius enough to know that there was a few, and that John no doubt was well aware of every single one. He hoped that his very own doctor would always be as kind about it as he had been all these years.

It was afternoon when they finally were up and had collected their cat, and John found himself amused. Gladstone and Sherlock were lying on the couch together, the cat lazily flicking his tail and the detective doing much the same motion with a foot, both looking about as bored as the other, and together making up a wonderfully sweet domestic scene.

Chuckling for himself, John went about making a bit of food for all of them, smiling for himself all the while, and humming, as he had taken to doing the last few years. They had quite a collection of Christmas cakes and cookies, thanks to the difficult-to-foresee baking efforts of the detective, so all that John had to do was the actual food.

John was joined after an hour or so by the soft tunes of Christmas music, played skillfully on a violin by someone who was clearly more than mastering the art, and by a loudly mewling cat at his feet, a sound made by someone who was clearly hungry.

Putting down a bowl of catfood and one of milk to the cat, John chuckled for himself and then by the sound of it went back to whatever he was doing in the kitchen, Sherlock concluded, playing all John's favourite Christmas songs on his violin. It was a bit inane, and honestly quite dull, but he knew it would make John smile, and that's what mattered, after all. Always.

 _I had to do this, what with the Sherlock/John Christmas cuddling theme going on. Funny thing is that I wrote this pairing as an experiment and it just got so popular - thank you all for that by the way. This is the only story that's actually timed_ after _the last chapter of "A Portrait of a Genius"!_

 _The stories go "Portrait of a Genius", "A Johnlock Christmas", "Loving a Genius" and "My Sherlock". The timeline however goes "A Johnlock Christmas - Prologue", "Portrait of a Genius - not including last chapter", "A Johnlock Christmas", "Loving a Genius", "Portrait of a Genius - the last chapter" and "My Sherlock"._

 _I know, the timeline is a little bit messy. Sorry about that. It started as one story only - I guess it is the power of good reviews that made it into a quadrology! I very much hope you have all very much enjoyed it, as this is the last one! ("Loving a Genius" is completed now, too.)_

 _All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners, and no parts of the series mean any copyright infringement. It is written for entertainment only and not for any profit. Happy Christmas, everyone! :D_

 _TapTap_


	2. The Blogger

_'Is sulking because Lostwithoutablogger is controlling my head and making me want to write Johnlock fluff. Or it might be Mrs Hudson. It is probably Mrs Hudson'._

 _This story will be continued further during future Christmases, but it suddenly got an extra chapter because of... mind control. Surprisingly effective mind control, too. She should use all that power for something profound and world changing... or for making me write more cute Johnlock. Not wasted talent at all._

 _These little stories will be complete in themselves, updated sporadically, and set over a long time. Expect the next one next Christmas._

 _If I owned_ _Sherlock_ _it would be pure fluff, not a crime series. I do not own_ _Sherlock_ _._

 _TapTap_

John walked in the door at 221 B Baker Street and held back a half fond, half exasperated sigh. Mrs Hudson was there, fussing about a Sherlock still in his robe, picking up things and repeating that she was, in fact, _not_ their housekeeper (no one thought that she was, she was _clearly_ their mother, Sherlock had told her back last week) and not buying for a second that she had baked the large chocolate cake on the counter herself and just forgot about it.

Laying on the armrest of the couch by Sherlock's feet was Gladstone the cat, who somehow had managed to drag yet _another_ one of John's jumpers out of the bedroom closet to lie on it. It was a beautiful October afternoon, but neither cat nor Holmes seemed at all inclined to even go out onto their small balcony.

Was it, John wondered for himself as he put the shopping away, that the cat was similar to Sherlock, or was it Sherlock who was very similar to their cat? Oh, the profund questions in the life of a blogger!

Snickering for himself as he clearly labelled the jam as "not experiment material", not that he thought that it would help, he reflected on how bizarre life as Sherlock Holmes' husband could be. It was true that most people did not have to worry about their jam being used on human remains, had a human skull on the mantelpiece or were married to someone who only slept every third night, but if all the nonsense on the internet was any indication; _most people_ , were very, very _bored_.

As John closed the refrigerator and opened some cat-food, putting it down for Gladstone, he heard Sherlock starting to play his violin. Crouching down and petting the cat, who clearly felt summoned by the presence of newly opened food, John left the kitchen with only one thought - insane as life with Sherlock always was, he wouldn't have it any other way.


	3. The Fifth Christmas

_And I am writing about Christmas! In August! Why do I always do that? I do not claim to own anything but my Genius verse. But that is all mine! And in my opinion the best part!_

 _The prologue to this chapter is written in August - the rest of the chapter is written in November._

 _TapTap_

"Oh, _all_ the _cute_. You _are_ cute, aren't you? You're _both cute_... but you sulk far less if I tell you that to your face" John confided in Gladstone, holding up a plastic Christmas tree decoration for the cat to play with. "I can hear you" came the responce almost immediately from the sofa, tone sulking and its owner stubbornly facing the wall.

By the time John looked back to the cat, the graceful - and now fully grown - feeline had moved on to ignoring the plastic decoration and instead gone for one of the handmade, expensive and very beautiful baubles which decorated the tree.

Getting it down expertly, the young cat hunted it across the floor, playfully chasing, but not breaking the delicate glass ball. In fact, when he was satisfied with his game, John could easily pick it up and simply hang it back. If _only_ the cat's owner could be as non-destructive and cooperative as the actual _cat_ , the doctor found himself thinking. Still, John loved Sherlock because he was Sherlock, and that included all of that - even the sulking and and other qualities of a cat far less well-behaved than theirs.

* * *

John finished hanging up tinsel - not too much, because while Gladstone was good with it, Sherlock was not nearly as tolerant - and stretched. It was their fifth Christmas together, not counting the ones before Sherlock's... absence, back when they were just best friends, flatmates and nothing more.

It would also be their fifth year of their Christmas Morning Cuddles tradition, though John had noted with not a small amount of fondness that Sherlock was getting increasingly puzzled by why it meant so much to him. It has been incredibly special the first few years, when it was really the only time he got unrestricted access to touching Sherlock, and the detective understood it _that_ far. By now, they were celebrating their second Christmas as husband and husband, and John could really touch Sherlock just about whenever he wanted.

To John though, that didn't stop it from being the perfect way to spend Christmas morning, and he reflected on that as he hung a single piece of mistletoe in the doorway to the kitchen. Sherlock would just have to tolerate _one_ piece.

It was with some relief John got down from the stepstool, and decided that the flat was absolutely decorated enough. Clean, too - it really had been a masterstroke to dedicate his old bedroom as a labratory. The kitchen nearly always looked like an actual kitchen where people did food, nowadays. Well, where _he_ made food, Mrs Hudson left food to heat up, and where Sherlock went for epic and completely random baking binges, the results of which he then tried to blame on them.

Mrs Hudson had complained loudly at being accused of doing _anything_ and then forgetting about it, until she had realised who the true baker was. John had bitten his lip in amusement several times when Lestrade had been in the flat and spotted a rather unreasonable amount of baked goods for the flat of two not very domestic fellas. Mrs Hudson always chattingly claimed responsiblity for putting it there - sometimes with excuses like that she had no where to let it cool in her flat, or that an old lady like her couldn't possibly eat it all herself.

On one particular occasion John was sure she didn't even know what some of the baked goods _were_ , but Lestrade never noticed. John had heard her ask Sherlock for the recipy later on, but he hadn't gotten involved. The detective had pretended like Mrs Hudson was senile again, of course, but John had still found the requested recipy later on, neatly written down and together with some china she had leant them earlier. He pretended like nothing as he carried both down for her, but chuckled for himself, walking back up the stairs to their flat, when Mrs Hudson caught on as always and winked at him.

"John!" He was torn from his reflections by a sulky Sherlock, who was hanging up his Belstaff and looking around the flat with obvious distaste. "What is this?" "Christmas, Sherlock" John noted patiently, holding back a smile as Gladstone suddenly appeared from nowhere, curling around Sherlock's feet and demanding to be petted. "It happens every year" he added a hint of steel into his tone, making it clear that this would not be discussed further. Sherlock pouted slightly (which he would never admit to) but picked up his cat and went to curl up in the sofa, doubtlessly to take a nap with his pet. They did that a lot, as it happened, and John couldn't help but find it rather amusing.

When Lestrade burst in the door an hour or so later, consulting detective and cat alike were awake, but not really aware, both of them lying and lazily flicking either their tail (the cat) or right foot (John's husband) while doing absolutely nothing productive. John had come to like it: nothing got broken, there was no noise, and no one was either bored or maniacally... well, whatever it was that Sherlock did. Thinking. He supposed Sherlock was in his mind palace, at these times, but he'd never asked.

Instead of dwelling on that, he smiled and greeted the DI. "Greg. What can we help you with?" Obviously not spotting Sherlock from where he stood, Lestrade nodded quickly. "John. Is Sherlock here? Molly said he left Barts a few hours ago". "In the mind palace. With the cat" John took the time to enjoy the DI's baffled expression before he went back to his newspaper. One thing about living with Sherlock Holmes was that absolutely nothing surprised you after a few years, and he certainly didn't expect the criminals to respect the holidays. They never had during the previous years.

John ignored the loud arguing as Sherlock was rudely awakened, awaiting to either come with him, or, if the case was too easy, silence to descend again. A minute later, the first thing that happened was a paw on John's leg, as Gladstone wanted to come up. After that came a sheepish greeting from Greg.

John helped the cat get settled while he chatted to the now divorced DI about the holidays, and waited for Sherlock to get ready. Not a minute later the door slammed and John was alone for all of a minute, (not including the cat who had long ago stopped to be startled by any kind of noise) before Mrs Hudson's signature greeting was heard and she came in the door. Smiling, John went to write up a new blogpost. Around here, he would never be bored, and he loved it.


	4. The End

_And we have, finally, the long-awaited ending to this saga; stretching across two and a half years and four different parts. Thank you to all those who have come all this way with Sherlock, John and me, whether you started out with us or joined us along the way. I hope you have enjoyed the path as much as I have!_

 _In this the last part, I have forgone my tradition of writing about Christmas in August, and it is written in June this year. Yeah, I do not understand how my plotbunnies work either._

 _Now, Happy Christmas everyone, and I hope this ending is a thousand Christmas stars better than the official one!_

 _TapTap_

Ten years. John pondered this fact as he hung tinsel yet another year on Baker Street, aware that the curious eyes of their now massive (despite how Mrs Hudson was feeding him, he wasn't actually fat, just incredibly buff, if in cat style) cat Gladstone followed his every move. Curiously, their cat seemed to enjoy having tinsel around, watching it closely but never touching (which was more than you could say about the cat's daddy, unfortunately).

Ten years at Baker Street, ten years of a landlady baking (and, much more secretly, a certain detective baking even more) and showing up with her distinctive yoohoo at random occasions, of chases across London and police cars pulling up outside for stranger reasons every passing year. Two years of simple, solid friendship, two years of mourning, and finally: six years of _them_. John wouldn't change a minute, not even the terrible years when he thought he'd lost his best friend, because they landed him _here_ , and there's nowhere in the world he'd rather be.

Smiling for himself, John went to unpack more Christmas decorations, answering back with a vague sound meant only to give away his presence and position in the flat, when he heard Mrs Hudson call out her usual greeting from the staircase.

"John. Where's Sherlock? I hope he wore a hat if he went out, the poor dear is going to catch a cold otherwise in this weather!" Mrs Hudson fussed in her usual way, moving a few books which littered the coffee table to a more suitable spot and stopping to pet the soon purring cat. "He's still in bed. He's doing that thing where he sleeps for two days straight" John reassured her softly. Sherlock was getting better with people, but consideration and empathy were John's gifts, after all.

"Oh yes, the case with that murderer you were chasing. I heard on the news how you caught him. Dreadful deal, dear. Why would someone do such a thing? And at Christmas and everything!" Mrs Hudson bemoanded the cheek of someone to break peace in the middle of December.

"There are more murders closer to Christmas" they were educated by the lazy, still well-cultured even in a state of half-sleep, voice of Sherlock Holmes. He looked barely conscious as he flopped onto the couch in the thick, maroon dressing gown his brother had gifted him for Christmas two years ago. He said he wore it because it was so warm, but John knew better. Strange as the two brothers' relationship was, this sign even he could understand. It might have been a very small token of affection, to use a gift, but it was a token of affection none the less. Especially for those two maniacs.

* * *

John woke to the dual sensations of Sherlock depositing several large boxes on their bed and Gladstone walking up his leg. This had used to be of little note, once, but he had gotten rather heavy since then.

John was saved from having to wake up far too quickly from Sherlock, who scooped up his cat with a fond "don't do that, you're too fat now" which completely failed to sound chastising. Of course, that was not surprising, as John already knew Sherlock's soft spot for his cat went on for several miles easily. He considered this proven by the fact that when he opened his eyes, Sherlock was sitting on his side of the bed, still cradling the huge, purring feline to his chest.

After watching his husband and their baby (oh dear, Mrs Hudson had really gotten to him, huh) for a few moments, John reached out to pull his very own genius back into bed. It was a truly _fantastic_ Christmas.

* * *

John looked up from his chair as Mrs Hudson loudly proclaimed the turkey all done. Not only her, but Molly and Greg Hooper-Lestrade (along with their cat, Toby, who was still hiding from Gladstone, last time John checked) had joined them for Christmas dinner this year, and he was glad for their company. Not only because Greg had turned out to be quite the good cook, but as far as John was concerned, that fact alone made him entirely welcome.

As for Sherlock, he was on his best behaviour, playing cheerful Vivaldi ("Four seasons" might not be very Christmassy, but it was a small piece of rebellion and no one mentioned it) so all things considered, John was pleased.

It was nice to get to see Molly and Greg together in such a relaxed setting, as well. John agreed with Mrs Hudson's assessment at their wedding the previous spring - they both deserved someone less crazy, someone who valued their sense. Someone _nice_. They were adorable together, as well, though the former army doctor knew better than to say that out loud. Better leave such statements to Mrs Hudson, after all.

As everyone settled by the table (even Sherlock), Molly playfully answering to "Lestrade" in place of her husband just to tease the detective, John initiated a toast while Greg carved the turkey for them. "To love, family, and a Happy Christmas!" And they lived happily, ever, after.


End file.
